


call me, maybe

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [64]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: :), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: The other glares at him petulantly. “I can put my table where Iwant,” he retorts. “And as for the call, it was a butt dial, so.Chill, if that’s possible for you.” With that, he returns to hacking at the…whatever it is with renewed vigour—a silent dismissal. Hermann sighs, retreating back to his own side and hopes that that’ll be the last of it.





	call me, maybe

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Hermann refuses to remind Newton that he has a flip phone. But who knows? With him, anything’s possible, he supposes. Even butt dials with flip phones."

“You called me again,” Hermann says, over the scrape of the chalk on blackboard, the sound grating, and, when Newt just hums in response without looking up, repeats the motion, slower and more grating. “ _Again_ ,” he emphasises.

There’s a wet splat as Newton throws up his hands, kaiju fluid viscera every which way, a scowl affixed to his face, hair in disarray, and snaps, “ _So?_ ”

“At three in the  _morning_ ,” Hermann returns, and fails to hide his flinch as a piece of kaiju slithers off of the biologist’s dissection table and over the fading line splitting the lab in half. “I  _told_ you to move your table further away!” he shouts, clambers down the ladder and kicks the— _something_ back onto the biologist’s side.

The other glares at him petulantly. “I can put my table where I  _want_ ,” he retorts. “And as for the call, it was a butt dial, so.  _Chill_ , if that’s  _possible_ for you.” With that, he returns to hacking at the…whatever it is with renewed vigour—a silent dismissal. Hermann sighs, retreating back to his own side and hopes that that’ll be the last of it.

Still, he’s a bit perplexed as to  _how_ Newt could  _possibly_ be butt dialling him, considers  _asking_ , even, but—Hermann refuses to remind Newton that he has a flip phone. But who knows? With him, anything’s possible, he supposes. Even butt dials with flip phones.

Still, the issue refuses to be gone from his mind, lingering there at the edge of his consciousness, distracts him from his work. In irritation, he presses harder against the board—if he has to suffer, then Newt does, too, forced to listen to the god-awful scrape of chalk—

There’s a snap, and Newt calls, “Hey, Hermann? Are you okay?”

“I’m  _fine_ ,” Herman snaps, erases the miss-written end of a number and re-writes it with the now-halved piece left in his grip. Newt gives a grunt and returns to squishing around in kaiju, and Hermann can see in his mind’s eye, the squint of his eyes behind beviscerad glasses, tongue stuck out just slightly in the way Hermann knows he does when he’s focused with laser-like intensity.

“I hate you,” he says, aloud, experimentally, waits for the righteous anger that—

_Should_ be there. Instead, the words feel hollow.

“What’d you say?” Newt yells, pausing for a moment to glance up at Hermann. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the—” he gestures at the headphones, since when does he wear  _headphones_ , is Hermann really that unobservant? “You gonna answer, or keep running your hands over that chalk-board like it’s your lovechild?”

Hermann flushes, sputters for a moment. “Nothing!” he shouts, “I didn’t—I didn’t say anything!”

The other shrugs, readjusts the headphones, and dives back into what might possibly be a spleen with a disturbing amount of glee on his face, the vibrant ink on his arms on full display in the short-sleeved shirt he’s wearing.

Hermann turns back to the board, discreetly tugs at the collar of his own shirt, suddenly inexplicably warm.

* * *

“We’ll keep in touch, yeah?” Newt grins at him, wide and carefree. “It’s not a life-sentence, Herms. And I’ll call you at least once a day.”

“More than once, if you’re as bad with touch-screens as flip-phones,” Hermann huffs, but there’s no bite to it, a grin of his own hiding just beneath it. Before, perhaps, he’d stand there awkwardly and watch Newt leave, but—

Now, he notices when Newt shifts forward, just the slightest bit, and, before Newt can do so, Hermann surges forward, dragging the other into an embrace.

Newt lets out a startled  _oof_. “Easy there,” he says, voice muffled on Hermann’s shoulder, “I’ll miss you too, bud.”

* * *

(There are no accidental calls in the middle of the night.

Hermann spends the first week waiting, anticipating, like a live-wire. His phone remains silent, and, eventually, he falls asleep; dreams of days past, flashes of Newt—laughing, crying, standing tall, defiant, seizing on the floor, expression shocked— _hopeful—_ as Hermann offers to Drift with him—

When Hermann wakes, there are tear-tracks dried on his cheeks.

He ignores the subtle but present shaking of his hands as he washes his face clean, refuses to acknowledge the lingering taste of wholeness, the knife-sharp taste of missed chances.)

* * *

“Hermann!” Newt calls, grin wide, as if nothing has changed.


End file.
